


The Touch of Her Hand

by velvetsun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetsun/pseuds/velvetsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place sometime around Dream a Little Dream of Me and veers drastically off canon after that. A different version of how Bela stole The Colt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Touch of Her Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transfixeddream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/gifts).



> For the prompt: Dean/Bela, Dean was so much easier to tolerate when he was bound and gagged.

Dean’s a little fuzzy when he comes to, but the pain of the railroad spike lodged in his temple is hard to miss. He feels tight, restricted. Opening his eyes, he picks up a silver gleam on his chest through the blue and white spots in his vision that brighten and fade. Duct tape rings his shoulders and wrists, pinning him to what feels like the leg of the table in his room. He bites down on the material that gags him, struggling to get free as the adhesive pulls tight at his skin. There are needles prickling at his arms, more intense in his fingers and he fists his hands trying to force them away. Absently, he wonders how long he’s been bound in this position when a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Ah, there you are. So nice of you to join me.”

He squints at the light when he raises his head with a groan, it’s bright and painful. And that’s when he sees her.

Fucking Bela.

His body tenses immediately. Hunter instincts kick in, scanning the room from his place on the floor, trying to form a plan in his head.

Bela’s sitting a few feet away on the bed with her legs crossed looking down at him. She’s leaning back on her hands, head cocked to the side with wicked grin.

“Might I offer you a bit of advice?” she starts, pausing as if he could answer. “Lay off that extra Twinkie now and then, hmm?”

The mere sound of her voice grates against his nerves, peeling them away layer by layer with each syllable until they’re raw and brittle. And when it comes to Bela, there aren’t that many to begin with.

“You’re not exactly light, y’know.”

There are a few choice words he could offer her, all the good it does unable to say them though. He tries to straighten his body, move into a more comfortable position, grabbing the table leg with his hands as leverage. But the position is awkward and tape is strong and unforgiving when he tries to move. After pushing back against it with his legs, feet flat against the floor, he resigns to lean his head back against the hard wood. Fixed on Bela, he glares at her with open disdain through dark and narrowed eyes.

His hair is mussed; short brown spikes that are wet and red at the temple, glisten in the golden light of the room. There’s a small trail of blood creeping down the side of his face threatening to drop to his shoulder at any moment.

Dean watches Bela’s eyes track the movement, staring sightlessly at it before she comes back to herself meeting his gaze.

“It’s rather unfortunate that your head found the butt of my gun, isn’t it?” she says, raising it up into view from behind her back. “Shame I had to mess up that pretty face, hmm?”

Recognition sets in, eyes hard at the smooth steel of The Colt in her hands. He fights against the bindings; jerking and pulling against the duct tape that digs into his arms making them white at its edges, blood forced away by the struggle. Dean stills his body, unable to break free, but his mouth continues cursing a blue streak. Swears that get lost in the material, muffled and twisted by the gag that cuts into his skin.

Dean vows to every deity he can think of over the next few minutes. They’re vengeful promises guaranteeing that there will be hell to pay when he gets out of this. Bela won’t have to worry about the hounds tracking her down, he’ll kill her first. Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll hand her over and watch her squirm. Either way, there isn’t a place in this world where she’ll be safe from him.

His eyes follow her when she stands and begins to move around the room, pure venom seething from them as his mouth attempts to form a sneer. The hatred radiating from him is a living, breathing thing. It snaps and snarls at her when she approaches completely ignoring its warning.

Bela sinks down, elbows resting on her bent legs when she looks at Dean. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?” she says, her accent thick and dripping with sarcasm.

He’s heaving, baleful eyes aimed at her when he curls his body to raise his legs up in front of him. Swinging them to the side with a brutal force, unable to stand the sight of her, he shoves her off balance and she falls to her side. The smack of her palms on the floor breaking her fall before she faceplants into the carpet is the only noise in the room.

Pride wells up inside Dean as he watches her roll to her side and prop herself up on her forearm, looking back at him indignantly she says, “You’re an insufferable little bastard, you know that?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Dean lifts his head high and stares defiantly at Bela. His eyes are bright and smiling.

“You think you’re real cute don’t you?”

Dean shrugs with a tilt of his head. There’s a cocky grin hidden behind the gag, judging by the flex of his jaw.

“You’re sexy little smirk’s not going to help you this time Dean,” she says, crawling towards him, “I’m not one of your little bar flies.”

Grin fading, he raises a brow and eyes her warily.

“You see, the way I figure it, I can do…pretty much anything I want to you right now. And I gotta tell you, the thought,” Bela says, grabbing his thighs to straddle him. Spread across his hips, she leans in, pressing the words against the soft stretch of skin below his ear, “is very tempting.”

A warm shiver wraps around the base of Dean’s spine; it crawls up and out his shoulders at the touch of her lips. Her cheek grazes his as she pulls back, and the scent of vanilla and some other fruity crap fills his lungs at the soft sweep of hair across his face.

Dean can’t deny that it’s been awhile, but he’s in no way responsible for the reaction of his stupid, slutty dick when her body slides against his. He will definitely be having a long talk with it later about its poor decision making skills. He prays she doesn’t notice, but knows it’s only a matter of time.

His eyes are clenched tight, brows furrowed in pain. Whether it’s Bela’s words or the way the tape cuts into his wrists, he doesn’t know. He’s betting it’s the latter.

Sat back on his thighs, Bela’s face is only inches from Dean’s, tilted down as she watches her fingers trace along a broad strip of exposed skin where his t-shirt has rucked up.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like this, just a little.”

A faint flush creeps into Dean’s cheeks. He can feel the heat rush to them and tries to convince himself that it's fury coloring his skin, not her words. Staring at Bela though, his expression is blank and unwavering, silent but undeniably hostile.

“Yeah, I think you do.”

The tips of Bela’s fingers slip under the hem of Dean’s tee, pushing it up in search of skin to touch and stroke. He hisses when her nails dig into the firm muscles of his back while her thumbs rub circles just above his hips.

Back arching against the restraint, Dean moans when she bites at his nipple, pinching it between her teeth and worrying the skin with her tongue. She rocks her hips and grinds down on Dean’s dick, one hand snaked between them feeling down his chest. His dick is pressing painfully against the zipper when she tugs it down.

Dean gives a punched out breath when Bela grips his cock and jacks him. Any fight Dean had is gone now; he lets his head fall back and his eyes close, rolling his hips forward when she bites his neck. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, but there will definitely be a mark there later.

Bela’s lips draw along Dean’s jaw, scraping along the stubble there when she whispers, “I bet you’d feel so good inside me,” as she adjusts her grip to work her hand faster.

“But I wanna see you, just like this,” Bela continues, twisting her wrist and jacking him faster, harder, following the rhythm of Dean’s hips. The angle’s wrong and she has to keep twisting her wrist and adjusting her grip. There’s not enough room, Dean’s jeans aren’t pushed down far enough but it doesn’t appear to make much difference to her. Bela’s hand slips down further, cups his balls, thumb sliding back and forth over the soft skin there before gripping his shaft again. Firm, hard pulls that make his hips twist and buck.

Bela reaches up and drags the gag down, lets it fall and rest around his neck. He watches her with dark eyes, pupils threatening to swallow the green. He’s about to say something when she covers his mouth with hers, swallows his moans, teeth clashing together with the force of her kiss.

Kissing Bela isn’t bad; but there is something that Dean is infinitely more desperate for, it makes his mind spin and his mouth water. He fucks into her mouth with his tongue, because it’s all he can do like this, bound and at her mercy. He breathes loud, broken moans into her, wanting to throw her down and just take. But more than kissing, more than fucking, Dean wants to drop down between her legs, push aside her panties with his thumb and lick deep into her folds in wet, loud slurps.

His palms would spread her thighs wide, panties riding the cleft as she bucked and moaned. Nosing along the wetness that’s soaked through the soft silk, he’d tease her relentlessly, drag his tongue over her, licking and tasting. She’d writhe, whine and beg, grip his hair and force him deeper. And the way he’d roll his tongue over her clit would make her scream.

Or maybe she’d ride his face. He’d grip her hips and pull her down over him until he was drowning in it. He’d make her come, sink into her and lick up her walls. He’d make her taste herself when she coats his tongue; smear it all over his face until it drips from his nose to his chin.

Bela pulls back to watch Dean just before he comes, his head tilted back and lips stretched around a silent moan as it wracks through him.

“Yeah, just like that.” Bela breathes.

Dean cries out wordlessly, shattering hot and wet into Bela’s hand, striping his stomach and spilling over onto her fingers. She strokes in even, shallow pulls, wringing him through it until he chokes out a whimper.

Their foreheads are pressed together, breathing each other’s air when she lifts a finger to his lips and paints them with his come, licking at them, pushing her tongue inside to share the taste of him.

They’re still and silent for the next few minutes, nothing but the sound of their breathing when Dean speaks first.

“I knew under all that bitchiness you wanted me.” Dean rasps, voice hoarse and raw.

Liquid and lifeless, he slumps back, smirk planted firmly on his face and lost in his own little world while Bela gets to her feet and fixes her clothes.

At the open door she turns back, one hand still on the knob, Bela grins, “No sweetheart, I wanted The Colt. You, were just a bonus.”

Dean’s bliss is ruined when the door to the motel room slams shut and the words sink in. His eyes shoot open and he is acutely aware of three very important things: one, dried jizz is itchy; two, Bela has The Colt; and three, Sam is never going to let him live this one down.

Fuck.

Dean is so very, very screwed.


End file.
